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Behind Levin came the lad Mishka. His pretty, boyish face, with a

twist of fresh grass bound round his hair, was all working with

effort; but whenever anyone looked at him he smiled. He would

clearly have died sooner than own it was hard work for him.

Levin kept between them. In the very heat of the day the mowing

did not seem such hard work to him. The perspiration with which

he was drenched cooled him, while the sun, that burned his back,

his head, and his arms, bare to the elbow, gave a vigor and

dogged energy to his labor; and more and more often now came

those moments of unconsciousness, when it was possible not to

think what one was doing. The scythe cut of itself. These were

happy moments. Still more delightful were the moments when they

reached the stream where the rows ended, and the old man rubbed

his scythe with the wet, thick grass, rinsed its blade in the

fresh water of the stream, ladled out a little in a tin dipper,

and offered Levin a drink.